Figure Eight
by utsushidasu
Summary: "Indeed, everything is obtained, everything conquered by him who gives a thousand or more." An Ise/Kyoraku poetic-ish playlist.
1. Porch Song 1 AM

_Chants - "Porch Song 1 AM"_

* * *

For weeks she wonders whether she can will her winter wears away,  
while the wide weathered grey of a grandmaster's mind wants not to wilt  
and remains ever opposed to the sun's impermanent imposition

For what seems seventy hours straight, he falls far from seismic grace  
left to hope he may find more than a modest fraction of her fevered fragments:  
they are the fogs and fumes of Venus; no day is cloudless in the dense history of heartbreak

On and off each has spent their nights from the stance of sensation  
Both in secret smear their hands with honeyed heroics  
He maintains he can spot the spirit seeping from her votive ventricles  
and she sometimes swears in her sleep

He is purposefully porous, a contradiction of joy-cruising concentration  
calligraphing soul-shaded sign language on her shadowy skeleton  
and she will always have room in her pulmonary veins for him

She confines fluid woe in the worthiest containers  
Named for a city with a watering mouth of a mighty river  
she cannot always recall the consonants that sound cleverer  
when called for use in reproving run-ons  
And only he can see her comely consummately  
as she assails his senses for forty seconds approximately  
and then retracts, retreats, but never wholly leaves

Within walls crested with the fortune of one character,  
where two craning crescent-like strokes surrender to synthesis  
she sometimes cedes to craving to curl into vapor like the steam of the flavor  
of the rolling boiling resolution in her teacup. The wait exacted—not exactly but near  
eight hundred thousand hours—is sweetly excruciating in composure

There is frailty in that of which neither speak;  
in conversation they are syrup and acidity, the former hindered in her  
until winter's faults are overgrown with the green spirals of spring  
Their blend of body preserves itself with ladles of lachrymose salt

At the same time are they artful and artless  
She sees herself swimming out to seize him, to show how smiling her shell has become  
even with experience, as the designs of death aim to strain her sides  
He grins under straw and they independently arrange in summertime to sweat the other out

He likes pretend play, says his vena cava's far superior to hers  
but she's done her own research, none else so resourceful  
"I don't want to suffer time without you," each speculates with their eyes  
in the garden, then internally tries out the unsavory emotion several times

But he is first to muse and mime, to her, a most absurdly satisfying claim:  
"My aorta would freeze over at once and shatter spectacularly,  
the red and purpled shards of past significance startled into love-lorn statehood  
in an underworld whose mournful seam I had scorned to meet."

But how would she wish to seek or be sought?  
"Of each of us, whose steel-honed sense aches for their meaning more to penetrate?  
If only I could know for me your spirit only emanates."

And in the midst of but one of a billion August eighths  
though a minefield's trembling ends much elsewhere  
their pantheocentric theory threads ardor from ruin  
each element engaged in saturation; the song brown hair hums  
to her breast is sonically spun still wilder round the kindling

"You are deep as thirst, two thirds the lovely orphaned itinerant first that I knew.  
You make me feel we have all the world's years and too few.  
For the unpardonable sum of the time we have not touched,  
I know you had to render yourself glacial, I'm sorry."

They will be one in the void but are even now the same with simply separated parts  
and disparate thresholds for and escapes from toxicity and tradition.  
"You have not been broken, you bend like the willow with its winter guest  
and my innermost inclination is to stamp each strand of your hair  
with my lips as nightly you fix yourself to the lacking half of me to rest."


	2. We're The Only Ghosts Here

_Tarentel - "We're The Only Ghosts Here"_

* * *

You do it to yourself, you feel it done to you, but sensing, starting nothing, nothing doing  
I must have done it to you too—this bony, blighted, bare inspector with her bastard ballet

Bleed, crushing blue brisance, a broken cage and brow  
I lecture my lungs on out and in as ashes are pitched all over  
and beg an atheistic bow and shout to recombine, somehow  
both the heat to the heart  
and the heart to its beat

These mortal moments come to hours alone  
No razing razor's risk or remotely sharp regard rejects the blow  
My mind and stand-up shield share green  
the first unready and the other ever urgent, newly seen  
as his high ground lags to low

But bone ascends, you breathe out and in again, and I best learn from you  
We do it to ourselves, we feel it done to us, sensing all, parting for nothing, imparting all  
when we're the only ghosts here, when we're the only souls to mind the other's fall


	3. Blooded and Blossom-blown

_lovesliescrushing - "Blooded and Blossom-blown"_

* * *

yes, those eyes encircle the collapsing cups of calla lilies  
crowded phyllaries, petals peeling tears of rot  
those grey pearl eyes are pulled down, fixed on the weakened fissures  
of memories gushing red matter

yes, to the floor flowing pink and fervid as last month's mums  
now gags a father's pit with wet wilted bunches  
as the chilled stone had sayeth: boy, be good  
and at last, he traces and shadows the sovereign name with a bowing pointer  
and hopes he is good, to stand so still, so silent

yes, those lids wreath the spoilt curves of deathbed's iris  
and that slim sleekest vase may—its glassy shell might  
whistle colder wind to blow or hustle to hell at the touch of hands farthest from one living well  
how he hates to have to welcome wakefulness back

a home / a flame doused in a vault  
to know that each shiver has her own name, her sole shot of fault  
and those eyes: endless tar ovals that have him clawing corner rooms to white painted dust  
yes, and like snow, the dots descend to disguise the mountainous cost  
the spots bleach in layers but in his campaign for clean slate claim loss


End file.
